


Energies (the you're vital, and untitled, remix)

by itachitachi



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 14:47:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2472119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itachitachi/pseuds/itachitachi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the one where Merlin becomes court physician. It is unfortunately not the one where Merlin knows how to go about being a physician. At least he has some support.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Energies (the you're vital, and untitled, remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaizoku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaizoku/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Untitled (the one where Merlin becomes court physician)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/504191) by [kaizoku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaizoku/pseuds/kaizoku). 



Gaius has eloped. Merlin is very happy for him, of course, but in the wake of all that happiness it seems that _he_ has been—well. Promoted against his will.

Obviously he would be the one to end up in this position, Merlin thinks. _Obviously_. He stirs resentfully at what will—hopefully—turn into a potion for improved eyesight.

"Merlin," says a courtier who Merlin is fairly sure wouldn't have recognized his face, much less his name, only the day before. The whites of her eyes are not so much red as they are bright pink. Alarmingly so.

"Erm," he says, fumbling for the books on the shelf and trying not to stare at her. Three large tomes come toppling down almost directly on top of him. "Is that—are those—your only symptoms?"

He listens with one ear as the Lady Arianne details a few symptoms that Merlin had really rather not known about. It's not as if he knows what this ailment is, and it's not as if hearing about her goopy tears is going to help him.

He flips through the books. The first is about horses, and their... springtime behaviors. Merlin shuts it quickly, his cheeks hot.

The other two are about feet and vomiting, respectively.

In the cauldron on the table, the potion Merlin had been working on has turned purple and started to smoke. Quickly, he scoops some up and pours it into a little vial. He's not quite sure it's finished, but it's the closest thing he has to a remedy. And it'll be fine, he's pretty sure.

"Will this really—" the lady starts, squinting dubiously at the vial.

"Of course," Merlin says. "Drink it with dinner tonight." He hopes that she can't see very clearly right now. He hopes what he's created isn't toxic.

As she leaves, still holding the vial of potion at arm's length, he stretches out his hand, screws up his concentration, and—

—His eyes flash gold. There's a soft ringing in his ears.

It sounds like all his best spells vaguely do: like success. Yes, Merlin thinks with excitement, his heart pounding. He's going to be the best (or perhaps the worst) physician that Camelot has ever seen.

He heaves a sigh, and then nearly topples over.

()()()

By the time he's dealt with (what he hopes is) the last patient, his head is pounding in a distinctly unpleasant fashion, and his skin feels too tight. He's exhausted. When he glances out the window, hoping to see the long light of near-dark, it becomes clear that it's only noon.

Gwaine swanning in almost has him groaning. Almost.

"So, what's your ailment," he asks. His throat is uncomfortably dry.

"Merlin, I'm shocked that you'd think I'd only visit you in sickness," Gwaine tuts. "I never get sick."

_Good_ , Merlin thinks. He rests his head on the table. He's not sure he can hold it up any longer.

"Everything going well?" Gwaine asks, hesitant.

"No," Merlin groans. "I can't believe anyone thinks I would make a good physician. I'm rubbish at this."

"It's a good thing you've got the magic then, isn't it?" Gwaine asks.

Merlin straightens abruptly, panicked. It's a bad move; his head promptly swims, and he feels a bit like he's going to be sick.

"Whoa there, my friend," Gwaine says. His hand is warm and comforting on Merlin's back.

"I never told you about the magic," Merlin says weakly.

"It's not that hard to figure out, honestly," Gwaine says. "Oh come on now—don't pout like that."

()()()

The next day is worse.

At lunch Merlin is fairly certain he is going to die. His eyeballs feel like rocks. He had barely been able to manage a minor soothing spell on his last patient's uncomfortably-placed rash.

"You look a bit rubbish to be honest," says Gwaine. Merlin hadn't noticed him walk in. "How are you holding up? Surely this job isn't worse than working as his royal arseness's manservant?"

Merlin pulls the plain parchment cover off the book he's been trying not to fall asleep on. It reads, in very fancy letters, _The Mystik Healing Artes_.

"Healing apparently consumes quite a lot more vital energies than the kind of spells I'm used to doing," Merlin croaks. "I don't even know what vital energies are."

"Hmm," Gwaine says, raising an eyebrow. "I think I can guess."

There is a long pause, and then Merlin blushes. "It can't be that."

"Why not?" Gwaine asks. He leans in close, the swoop of his hair brushing at Merlin's cheek. "Perhaps we should try replenishing yours, just in case."

And well. Gwaine is Gwaine, and Merlin's always kind of—admired Gwaine, and it probably won't ruin anything to at least try, so...

Merlin doesn't quite realize he's tilted his chin until Gwaine is slanting in and, oh—

It's quite a nice kiss. Long and—nice. Scratchy with beard at the edges, and then it's over.

Merlin's tongue feels sort of hot, but otherwise he doesn't feel much different than before. He wants to keep kissing Gwaine quite a lot though, so he just takes a breath and—does.

()()()

It's highly irresponsible since these are supposed to be Merlin's working hours, but Gwaine's need becomes quite pressing, so Merlin locks the door and tends to him. After that, Gwaine tends to him back. Thoroughly.

Merlin laughs when he lifts his head at last. He's halfway to naked on his own examination table, and there's broken glass on the floor. He should probably clean that up. Or—fix it with magic.

He wiggles his fingers and it's easy: the vials are whole again, lying on their sides on the floor.

"You look much better," Gwaine says, chin digging into Merlin's bare thigh. "Rosy cheeks and all."

Merlin does feel better, he thinks. So perhaps Gwaine was right. He winds his fingers carefully into Gwaine's hair, and they lay together like that for a little while longer.

"I'm sure you have others to tend to," Gwaine says eventually, extricating himself. He winks down at Merlin as he's buttoning up, and says, "See you later?"

"Not too much later," Merlin says, blushing. "I mean, I seem to be using up quite a lot of energy so..."

"Not to worry," Gwaine says, brushing Merlin's cheekbone with his fingers as he stands. "I'll help you out anytime."

()()()

So.

It's not that Merlin becomes more careless, not really. He still aims to hide everything that he does with magic.

It's just that he starts using magic for a lot more things. He gets a bit daring, to be honest.

"Harder," Uther barks into his pillow.

His magic likes helping people, that's all, Merlin tries to rationalize. That's why it radiates out of his hand almost without him even directing it to. It seeps, warm, into the tense knots of Uther's back, as he digs his thumbs in.

It feels a bit traitorous, but Merlin can handle that.

()()()

"He's asked me to come back every three days," Merlin says, head in his hands. "I _should_ have done an awful job."

"If you'd done awfully I'm sure he would have beheaded you," Gwaine says, swinging an arm round his shoulders. "Painful as it must have been, you made the right choice."

"Ugh," Merlin says.

"Why don't I help you take your mind off it," Gwaine says, in a lower voice. His other hand slips across Merlin's thigh, toward his waistband.

"Oh!" Merlin starts, and blinks over at Gwaine's face, so close to his own. "Really? I mean—Because I'm not that tired. Since we, you know, just went."

Gwaine grins, hand never pausing. "Relax, darling. I've got you."

Merlin resists the urge to topple Gwaine over and ravish him on the floor (again). He can relax. He can.

(He does. The handjob, and the careless half-hour of kissing that follows, do a great deal to restore Merlin's lost sense of equilibrium. And his vital energies, of course.)

()()()

After that, Merlin gets quite a few requests for massages. He hadn't thought that bad backs could be contagious, but who knew.

()()()

"It feels heavenly," Merlin hears from around the corner. "You work hard enough, anyway. Ask for him to do your hands or something, at least."

"No— that's—" It's a familiar voice.

Merlin pokes his head around the corner. "Gwen!" He hasn't seen her in ages, and there she is, a laundrymaid pushing her down the corridor toward Merlin's quarters.

Gwen squeaks, blushing when she catches sight of him. "I'm fine!" she insists. "No need!"

()()()

"Oh, don't be disappointed," Gwaine says, stretching out in the bed as Merlin mopes. "You can do me if you like."

"It'll make me tired," Merlin grouses.

"Then you can fuck me, and you'll feel better," Gwaine smirks. "Doesn't that sound like a nice evening?"

Merlin grumbles once more for the sake of it, but then says, "Alright, yeah."

It's as he's pressing his hands into the curves behind Gwaine's shoulderblades—and Gwaine is groaning shamelessly beneath him—that Merlin asks: "You wouldn't be embarrassed to tell me if you were feeling ill, would you?"

"Why would I be embarrassed," Gwaine mutters, the words only barely audible around his pillow. "You've already examined every inch of me there is. Inside _and_ out."

Merlin laughs, feeling warm because—it's true.

()()()

After a few weeks, Merlin finds he doesn't get tired quite so often. He figures his 'vital energies' have developed a bit of endurance. He and Gwaine fuck every two days or so rather than morning, noon, and evening, like they'd had to in the beginning.

Still, when Gwaine fails to pop up in Merlin's workroom for the third night in a row, Merlin gets a bit worried.

"He can't be avoiding me, can he?" Merlin asks Arthur, over a quiet supper that he's brought up to Arthur's rooms, for old times' sake. (Although now he's able to sit at the table and eat with Arthur, rather than wait with the wine jug while Arthur eats his own portion with exaggerated, obnoxious pleasure.) "He wouldn't avoid me."

"Avoid you?" Arthur frowns. "Merlin, Gwaine has been sick for days. I thought you were treating him for his illness."

()()()

"You blasted, cursed, awful idiot," Merlin says, shoving into Gwaine's room, medicine bag in hand. Gwaine is propped limply in bed, his nose red and eyes bleary. Used handkerchiefs litter the floor, the blankets are tangled, and the only candle in the room is burnt almost all the way down. "Oh Gwaine," Merlin sighs.

"I don't get sick," Gwaine tells him, snuffling through every other word. "This is a dream, I'm quite sure. A very unpleasant one."

The tea for colds and scratchy throats is about one of the only proper physician's recipes Merlin knows. He brews approximately a bucketful for Gwaine, and is able to coax him into drinking a few cups. Merlin plants fever-away spells on him like kisses, in gentle touches to his forehead and the palms of his hands.

"You have others to tend to, don't you?" Gwaine asks hoarsely, later in the night.

"They can probably wait until morning, unlike this one troublesome patient I know," Merlin says. He doesn't move, is too tired and content, curled up against Gwaine's side.

"That's me," Gwaine says, soft. He reaches down and prods the skin beneath one of Merlin's eyes. "What dark circles you have."

"I've missed you," Merlin says, quite accidentally.

"Mmm," Gwaine says, and scoots down until he's on Merlin's level. He thumbs at Merlin's cheekbone with one hand, and with his thigh brushes Merlin's cock, which has gotten somewhat hard. "You've got a bit of a problem, it seems. Shall I help you out?"

"You don't have to," Merlin insists. "I'm supposed to be looking after you."

"None of that," Gwaine says, rubbing at Merlin slowly and—very, very skillfully. "Tell me what you really want."

Merlin bites his lip, gripping at Gwaine's sleeve. "Please," he says, finally.

"There we are," Gwaine says, his breath hot and intimate where it curls behind Merlin's ear.

He doesn't stop, no matter how tightly Merlin grips at him, and when Merlin cries out Gwaine doesn't shush him—just smiles, and pulls him closer, closer.

"There we are," he says again, when Merlin's panting wetly into his chest, loose and sated. "I won't let you be the only one to look after us, Merlin. Someone's got to look after you too."


End file.
